FROM the recesses of this wild domain,
Where artless truth and simple manners reign,
The blushing Muse conveys the humble plea
Of modest merit, Royal YORK , to thee:
Nor seeks by flattery base, or sordid art,
To soothe thy princely ear, or reach thy heart.
Though oft that Muse with kindling transport view'd
Thy laurels sprouting in the field of blood,
And joy'd to see, when glory's day begun,
The youthful eagle soar so near the sun.
By the slow Scheldt , or deep majestic Rhine ,
The martial spirit of the BRUNSWICK line,
In ages past, as in the present days,
Has left rich trophies of undying bays:
Yet though they oft made hostile squadrons yield,
The heroes never view'd a brighter field,
Than where our wounded veteran press'd the plain,
And Honour wept o'er WOLFE untimely slain!
When roughest warriors, all unus'd to melt,
Through every rank the soft contagion felt:
And Britain's Genius saw with cheerless eye
O'er Abram's heights victorious standards fly:
Nor deem'd the dear-won glories of the day
Could her young Hero's matchless loss repay.
While Britain decks with martial wreaths thy brow,
What her lamented WOLFE was once--be thou!
The olive with the laurel garland blend,
The brave man's patron, and the good man's friend!
Such GRANBY was, whose name, to glory dear,
Still sweetly vibrates on the soldier's ear.
The Prince who made contending monarchs yield,
And Gallia's lilies cropt on Cressy's field,
Though his bold arm laid countless warriors low,
Shed pity's balm o'er every human woe;
And when he saw the hostile tumult cease,
Each milder virtue exercis'd in peace:
Hence his fair fame with clear and radiant blaze
'Spreads and grows brighter with the length of days.'
Think not the veteran, who with, humble pray'r
Yields his just cause to your indulgent care,
Would hope to touch with sacrilegious hand
The valued treasure of his native land;
Since his hard lot no earlier was discern'd,
He claims not all the meed so dearly earn'd;
But now by years and indigence oppress'd,
With modest patience forms this small request,
That he his aged limbs at peace may lay,
And calmly waste his fast declining day;
And when his soul aspires where WOLFE is fled,
He'll leave a soldier's blessing on your head.
See at your feet no common object bend,
A tender parent, and a generous friend:
To independence once he could aspire,
And cherish'd Want sat smiling by his fire;
But anxious care and sad dejections now
Lurk in the furrows of his manly brow;
While Poverty appears with haggard mien
To blast the peace of life's concluding scene:
His humble worth, mark'd by the Muse alone,
That Muse who lives unseen, and sings unknown,
Shall to brave YORK'S indulgent ear convey,
While truth and pity consecrate the lay.